The Tuesday Arsenal Lost The Game

For almost a year, every Tuesday has been the same.

And I mean that literally. Every morning , I would wake up on the same bed, wearing the same clothes, and turn to see the same date on my bedside calendar.

At first, I panicked. I tried so many different things. I tried to tell people what was happening. I refused to go out of my house. I screamed. I tried to stop myself from falling asleep. But the next day, I would still wake up caught in that unending Tuesday; caught in a loop of unending deja vu.

So, i resigned myself to my fate. I would wake up, bath if I felt like it, and eat without pleasure as I walked the streets of the town I lived in. Occasionally, I would play those games that used to excite me. At night, I would watch sullenly as Arsenal FC lost the Champions League football match to Barcelona FC. Over 300 times, I’ve watched that game and just before I crawled into bed, I would once again wonder if I had died and gone to a hell designed specifically for Gunners and murderers.

Yeah, I kill people.

I think I carried out my first successful murder when I was fourteen. She was a class mate I had invited home. We went into the kitchen to get some cold fruit juice, and she pushed me up against the counter and kissed me. And when she turned away and wiggled her butt seductively before she opened the fridge, I slammed the door on her head. Then again, and again until she stopped jerking.  In the days that followed, I would grow excited as I remembered how her legs had juddered. Like a mouse with its head crushed in a trap.

Cleaning up the blood had been soothing. The swish of the wet rag soaking up all the red made me smile and the coppery scent lingered on my hands for days. But most satisfying was the thought that I had everyone fooled. They were stepping over places where I had killed and spilled blood, yet they had no idea. For the last twenty years, cleaning up after myself when I was done ‘playing’ always calmed me.

So, when I got caught in the Tuesday-That-Wouldn’t-End, I began to play a lot. I would go into people’s houses and bludgeon entire families to death. I would abduct young women and torture them slowly in my house. I killed a lot of people.

But cleaning up wasn’t fun any longer. There was no need to. Wednesday never came, remember? I wasn’t fooling anyone and every morning, my sins were wiped away. It was a very distressing situation.

So, I decided to kill myself.

I sat through the Arsenal-Barcelona match one more time, cursing at the referee, then climbed into bed and slit my wrists. It was difficult to cut my left wrist with my right; I had sliced the tendons too deeply. As I watched the blood soak my bed, I was filled with regret. I wished I could have cleaned up after myself.


The next day I woke up and it was still Tuesday.

Upset, I left the house without bathing and killed more people than usual. And then, hands in my pockets wet with blood, i strolled home slowly. Before I entered, I lured in a girl hawking oranges. Then I slit her throat with a blunt knife, sawing slowly with all my strength. When she stopped moving, she looked surprised. I couldn’t bear her gaze, so I took out her eyes.

I settled in to watch that accursed football match, sucking on the oranges that had been on her tray. I didn’t bother to peel them; I just simply sliced each orange in two with the bloody knife, savouring the sting each squeeze left in my eyes. And slowly, those eyes grew wide with each goal I witnessed on the television screen. As the final whistle blew, I gasped in shock. Arsenal had just won the game!

As the shouts of jubilant Arsenal fans celebrating in the streets filtered in through my windows, I sat in my favourite armchair, citrus tears brimming in my eyes and fingers sticky with bloody orange juice as I wondered what this meant. This was jamais vu…. this had never happened before.


The next morning, I woke up and it was Wednesday. The curse of déjà vu had been lifted! I was free to move forward.

As I was taking that in, I heard someone banging at my door. Grinning, I ran to the door and yanked it open. Two very grim faces greeted me. Behind them, I saw the vehicle they had arrived in. It was a police car.

Then I remembered I had a dead body in my house.


About feminemdapest

I love words and how beautifully they can be woven. I have a wicked sense of humor and a mind like a sponge, so little gets past me. As a result, I have a garbage heap of a head. Did I mention I love words?
This entry was posted in Fiction, MACABRE, Speculative. Bookmark the permalink.

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